A Study in Hastings
by austenfan1990
Summary: A Poirot/Hastings oneshot written from Poirot's POV. The great detective studies and contemplates his closest friend and realises something important about himself. Slightly slash/pre-slash leanings.


**A Study in Hastings**

A Poirot/Hastings oneshot

by austenfan1990

**A/N:** Written from Poirot's POV. The great detective studies and contemplates his closest friend and realises something important about himself. Both Poirot and Hastings belong to the genius of Agatha Christie (as well as David Suchet and Hugh Fraser) while I confess to taking/paraphrasing one or two lines from _Lord Edgware Dies_. The rest of this, alas, is entirely my own work.

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Hercule Poirot was in a state of deep and pensive contemplation. His brown eyes were focused on an unseen spot in front of him and his round cherub-like face exuded a seriousness that few would have dared to disturb. Square competent fingers were pressed together in an arch against his moustached lips as his dapper suited self reclined in his chair behind his desk. In sum, he was in what was evidently his usual state of mind when pursuing a line of investigation.

However, on this occasion what was markedly different was that contrary to what one would have initially assumed upon seeing his quiet introspective figure, Poirot's thoughts were not currently running on a criminal vein. Nor to tell the truth did he have any pressing cases on hand. To the probable surprise of many, his current train of thought was fixed wholly on none other than his friend and associate, Captain Hastings.

Outside the warm confines of his flat, the clouds were dark and foreboding and were currently engulfed in the task of making the lives of those who had the misfortune to be on the streets miserable by pouring relentlessly with rain. One of these unfortunates caught outside was none other than the good Captain who with all his usual bravado had decided_ not_ to listen to his friend's advice about the possible downpour in the afternoon and had headed out in the morning with a cheery goodbye. He had left at around ten in the morning and looking at his pocket watch, Poirot could see that it was close approaching four o' clock. Concern rising steadily within him, he rose from his chair and parted the curtains a little, gazing at the storm which was minute by minute increasing in strength and ferocity.

_Only the good Hastings would have __l'audace__ to go out in weather like this_. _Mon Dieu._ _And furthermore without even an overcoat or an umbrella to protect him!_

But Poirot was not being critical of his friend; far from it. Even as he recalled Hastings' smiling countenance as he left the breakfast table this morning, he marvelled at his unflappable self-confidence in the face of such impending meteorological chaos. Hastings might not have and would, alas, never even hope to attain the brilliance of the little grey cells of Hercule Poirot but _certainement_, he had the self-assurance in some matters which the great detective admired and at times was even envious of. Not for Hercule Poirot the sudden impulsiveness to start on motor coach trips across the country as they had once done so in Devon or the hair-raising automobile chases from which Hastings seemed to take a great deal of pleasure when going after a particularly troublesome criminal. And most certainly _not_ the excursion in such unpredictable weather as today's. _Sacré__, it would be most unthinkable_. _I would at least have taken two mufflers with me as well as wearing my thickest overcoat._

He returned to his seat at this desk and the thoughts which had occupied his mind before his little inspection at the window also returned. For the whole day, he had been in a rather strange mood and with Miss Lemon being away to visit her sister on one of her rare days off, it was probably inevitable that his little grey cells had fixed upon Hastings, his character and the matter of his well-being. Initial annoyance at the polite rebuttals of his advice at breakfast had turned into curiosity and then into warm affection as he contemplated the qualities and habits of his closest friend. Poirot had been surprised to learn that though they had been friends for over twenty years, he had never paid much attention to Arthur Hastings other than noting his fondness for auburn hair and his somewhat haphazard manner in dealing with almost everything, ranging from retelling the facts of a case to the way that he arranged his tie which was almost always asymmetrical.

Then the little things which he had frequently observed but not recorded in his mind began to attract his attention. Like the way that Hastings habitually, almost subconsciously thrust his finely sculpted hands into his pockets or the elegant way in which he leaned against doorways, tables or walls when he himself was too focused on the task of delivering the final denouement of a case. The way those blue eyes widened in almost comical bewilderment when Poirot's logic had marched beyond the mental workings of those around him. Even the easy, graceful manner in which he touched his hand to his hat in salutation or the way that he sat down to read the newspaper on the couch.

And then of course there was his maddening habit of leaving his belongings around the flat, his mania about golf, automobiles and cricket which Poirot would never understand, the occasional correcting of his English, and overall, his lamentable lack of order and method.

But all of these things were soon blotted out of his mind when he turned to the memory of that somewhat infuriating but undeniably charming smile when Hastings (on those exceedingly rare occasions) found himself getting the upper hand over his little friend. And he knew deep down that he was fully prepared to indulge the man in any way had Hastings ever required anything from him when he gave him one of those captivating smiles. Furthermore, and regardless of all of Hastings' shortcomings and his being unable to compete against such a mind as his own, Poirot acknowledged that he simply did not care. The world did not need a second and inferior Poirot. It needed the supreme Hastings which the latter undoubtedly was.

The connotations of such a powerful revelation were not entirely lost upon him and though momentarily shocked by this, Poirot was concurrently not in the least bit surprised. He had suspected something like this would happen one way or another at some point in his relationship with someone who was quite possibly his oldest and dearest friend and whom he had probably loved long before he knew he had harboured such a deep affection for. They were of two entirely different characters but it was commonly said that – what was the phrase – opposites usually attract? But that was not the point now; the time for earnest ruminations of such feelings and whether they could possibly ever be reciprocated could wait until much later. What was most important at this particular moment in time was ascertaining where Hastings was.

It was precisely ten minutes past four when Poirot's sharp ears heard the front door open with a hasty turn of keys in the lock. It was followed by the unmistakable sound of someone stumbling against the hatstand and an assortment of walking sticks and umbrellas clattering noisily onto the floor. Poirot had to suppress a small smile as he overheard the predicted torrent of quiet cursing as Hastings, still out of sight and obscured by the half-closed glass doors leading into his office, evidently tried to rectify his unusual display of clumsiness.

A few moments later, Hastings' tall shadow appeared behind the doors though it appeared that this time, he had no wish of encountering his Belgian friend so soon after his arrival. Poirot's brown eyes watched him move with obvious care and quietness towards his room and he was nearly out of sight when the detective called:

'Hastings?'

Hastings instantly froze in his tracks. It was a short while before he retreated back to the doors of his friend's office, opened them and tentatively stepped inside, not daring to meet Poirot's inquisitive gaze while Poirot himself appeared to have expected nothing else than the sight which was now presented to him.

He was helplessly untidy; his smart tweed suit was entirely soaked through, his greying hair was in disarray and Poirot suspected that his boots were splattered with mud and leaving unsightly marks on his pristine floor. But it did not matter. Because he was himself. He was utterly and entirely Arthur Hastings.

'Oh, hullo, Poirot,' said Hastings, his voice sounding a little forced as he tried to appear indifferent to his present and obvious state of discomfort. 'Well…it's – er – raining buckets out there as you said it would,' he added, looking a little reproachful at being caught out and proved wrong yet again. 'Should have taken your advice, I suppose, and brought an umbrella.'

At this point, Hastings looked absentmindedly at the floor beneath him, flushed a furious shade of crimson and Poirot knew that his prediction of muddied boots had been proved correct. But for once, he chose not to berate him and pretended not to have noticed.

'Er…yes, well, I'll clean this up later after I've changed,' murmured Hastings, praying inwardly that Poirot wasn't paying him much attention. Finally mustering the courage to look directly at his friend, he was momentarily startled to realise this was exactly what the detective seemed to be doing. Surprise slowly turned into faint suspicion and he stared hard at the little man who had closed his eyes and had an expression of pure satisfaction on his face.

'I say, you're looking awfully pleased with yourself, Poirot. Is there something amusing you?'

Poirot flashed an enigmatic smile. 'Perhaps, _mon ami_.'

'Is it me, by any chance?' came the slightly accusatory rejoinder.

'Of course not, Hastings. Of course not,' replied Poirot soothingly as he opened his eyes and beamed kindly at his friend. 'I have been thinking of…various things…the whole of this morning and this afternoon and one matter in particular has had the effect of giving me some amusement. But it is of no consequence – it is as you say a foolish flight of fancy.'

'Well, regardless, it must be immensely pleasing judging by the smile on your face,' said Hastings, still appearing unconvinced.

'Perhaps,' said Poirot again, giving a slight shrug of his shoulders. 'But enough of my thoughts, Hastings. In the meantime, I will make you a cup of the good old English remedy while you get rid of these wet clothes. It is better that you change immediately before you attract the cold.'

'"_Catch a cold_", Poirot,' came the immediate correction as Hastings obediently left the room to do as he was told. The Belgian smiled yet again. Ah yes, the correcting of his somewhat imperfect English. He had also expected that. Hastings would always be the same. The world would undoubtedly change but both he and himself would not and this simple fact contented him to an immeasurable degree.

'Yes, _mon_ Arthur,' whispered Hercule Poirot quietly to himself as he headed off to the kitchen to make a strong pot of tea. 'You please me very, very much.'


End file.
